MattMo Drabbles
by Mercaque
Summary: Two stories written for a drabble contest. The first is a view from Angela Petrelli's POV. The second is h/c and involves chicken pox. Written before Season 3 so does not incorporate that canon.
1. Still Waters

Angela hasn't come to spy. In fact, she scowls murderously when she spots Maury Parkman's boy, and his bizarre little family, at a table less than twenty feet away. This is _her_ swanky little Italian place, dammit, where they make dirty martinis the way they're supposed to be made. A Parkman in this space offends her almost as much as one inside her head.

Worse still she recognizes his Indian companion as the grubby cab driver who had once delivered the corpse of her beloved Peter. Judging by the syrupy smiles they're together, and it's their shared daughter who bounces in the seat between them. The younger Parkman leans in, puts his arm around the girl's chair, rests his hand affectionately on the Indian's back. At one point they clink glasses, and it galls Angela to realize they're here to celebrate Matthew's _promotion_; not a proud achievement when you simply rip what you need out of defenseless minds.

Trash begets trash.

Oh, Maury's boy might be dressed in a dark suit -- and he might wear a policeman's badge and call himself righteous -- but he's still his father's son. Maury was always low class, a grifting Jewish sleaze who won the evolutionary lottery. And like his father Matthew reaches well beyond his worth. Who was violated in order for the younger Parkman to pay for this family date, to dress up his cab driver in an expensive suit, to part the little girl from her true family?

Angela remembers when Maury, too, pretended to be a family man: she'd even seen him laughingly help little Matty twirl pasta into a spoon the way the little girl does now. Matthew might have more exotic tastes than his father -- indeed, Angela herself can appreciate the Indian's delicately cut features -- but his true colors will not stay hidden forever.

She wonders if the Company even need bother breaking up this little family before Matthew grows tired of them first.

She wonders, because Bobby Bishop's called her recently. He still keeps in touch, even thirty years on. Angela can still hear the tendrils of hope in his voice, the impotent resentment that she had preferred Arthur -- and Kaito -- and frankly Victoria --- to his snot-nosed infatuation. Bobby's never completely let it go, even after finding some poor woman who could stand to fuck him and bear him a child, and he still lets Angela know from time to time what he's doing with the Company. As if she'll suddenly go weak-kneed at his rugged leadership, or bestow Arthur's posthumous approval. Angela doles out just enough interest to keep a valuable source of information from drying up.

Lately, Bobby's begun planning to take back the tracking system.

The system's fathers will oppose him, of course. But the cab driver need not be conscious for his blood to be harvested, and Maury's son... well, no one wants to relive that particular chapter in Company history. Three birds, one stone.

Bobby's planning well; Arthur _would_ approve, particularly how it mirrors the uglier Parkman tendencies. If Maury's boy decides to wash his hands of a tiresome child, that can easily be arranged. And if he wants to start playing in other people's dreams, his cab driver can be made to lie comatose forever. There's a karmic symmetry to this, she thinks. Her lips curl at the rim of her martini glass.

Angela suddenly realizes she is being watched.

Not watched. _Burned_ by the younger Parkman's dark eyes. Naturally he's picked her out across the restaurant, being so familiar with her private thoughts. Angela draws herself up frostily, challenging him, _daring_ little Matty to show her how far he's come.

But he does nothing, says nothing, gives not one hint to his sweetly oblivious family that anything is wrong. And he gives no signal that he is in Angela's head; he doesn't need to. Matthew needs only tighten his arm around the child, curl his fingers possessively at the Indian's sleeve, let his eyes turn implacably cold, to let her know he _will_ be his father's son if pushed.

It passes quickly, but the message is clear. One look at them, and Angela Petrelli knows she wants no part in the fight Bobby Bishop's about to pick.


	2. Hang Ups

Adult chickenpox occurs more often in some tropical climates, of which Matt Parkman is happily unaware until Molly's friend Lily Ng unwittingly brings it into their home. He and Molly are already immune; but the Chennai-bred Mohinder is soon a blistered mess.

A grumpy, _bitchy_ blistered mess. He's always hated catching the mildest of colds, let alone erupting in itchy scabs and collapsing feverishly at his laptop. He treats illness like a personal failing, a thing of disgust. Equally repulsed by Matt's nursing efforts, he squirms away from calamine dabs like they're acid.

"Will you sit still?" Matt bursts out. "You're the worst patient ever!"

"I didn't ask-" Blisters in Mohinder's throat make his voice a cracked whistle. He coughs sharply.

"Now might be a good time to remember you live with a telepath."

_I didn't ask you to do this!_

"Gee, you're welcome," Matt replies dryly, dabbing at his cheek. "You mad that I'm better looking than you for once?"

This earns a surprised snort from Mohinder. _That's absurd. You can't be blind to your hands, your shoulders..._ He catches himself. _Anyway, I'm like a freshly unwrapped mummy._

Matt laughs, and aims another spot of lotion at Mohinder, who flinches and goes very still.

"You really hate this, don't you?" Matt murmurs.

Eyes shut, Mohinder nods.

"What are you, embarrassed?"

_Not at all. I love looking like an open sore in front of my boyfriend._

"Freshly unwrapped mummy was funnier," Matt says. "And you've seen me with gunshot wounds, so I think I win the looking-like-crap contest."

_Not the same._

"Why?" Matt challenges, but Mohinder only scowls and keeps his thoughts to a low Tamil grumble. "Is it some transcultural masculinity thing I'm not getting?"

_No, but I appreciate the reminder not to discuss my friends' sociology papers at dinner._

"You're ashamed," Matt tries gently.

Mohinder's eyes fly open. _Oh please, that's just..._

"Makes sense," he continues. "Your sister dies of prolonged illness. _You_ get sick, your parents probably go a little nuts."

Mohinder's glare, made harsher by the blisters, could melt steel. _Don't you get enough interrogations at work? How dare you judge my parents?_

"Whoa," Matt says. "I'm not judging. Just trying to figure out..."

_How nuts they were?_

"You know I didn't mean it like that."

_Certain you're not projecting?_ As soon as the thought is formed Mohinder regrets it, his eyes widening in visible chagrin.

"Fine." Matt throws up his hands, having lost patience. "What do you want?"

_...I think I should just sleep._

Thus Matt retreats to the living room. He plays with Molly, pays bills, half-listens to Mohinder's dreams shift from irritable to delirious to afraid. But when he goes in to check, or bring Tylenol or juice, Mohinder won't budge from his sour, blanket-wrapped exile.

Matt's flipping channels when he finally shuffles out of his room.

Mohinder's in ratty sweats, a blanket around his shoulders. His face is still a mess of spots. Gingerly, he settles beside Matt on the couch.

"Uh, what's on?" he rasps, voice still shot.

Matt shrugs. "Paula Deen. She makes me look like a health food nut."

He snorts. "That's rather frightening." But he's not looking; he's focused on his hands, fidgety in his lap. "I, um, think I was a bit of an ass to you earlier."

_A bit?_ Matt thinks. But aloud he says: "It's OK. I shouldn't have pushed."

Mohinder shrugs. "You were being good to me. I was being an ingrate."

"Mohinder," Matt says firmly. "I said it's OK."

"You weren't wrong, entirely," he admits. "You're in the right line of work."

He's all frail and guilty-looking now. Instinctively Matt reaches out, his irritation forgotten; this time Mohinder does not fight, but curls into the embrace. He winces at a brush of raw skin, but soon settles heavily against Matt, who kisses his pockmarked temple.

On TV, Paula's frying buttery meat, and Matt attempts normal conversation. "Why don't we ever make things like that?"

"You might have to nurse me through bypass surgery?" Mohinder mumbles.

"Point taken."


End file.
